A Fitting End

It was the early days of flat screen TVs, but Jen and I were holding onto our boxy relic of the last century. It still worked. This was also a few years before streaming services, so if you wanted to watch something, your options were limited to whatever was being broadcast at that very moment. It was Thursday night, our day was done, and Jen and I were ensconced on our couch, having settled on a romantic comedy. We’d started it somewhere in the middle, and it wasn’t great. We liked the leads, and they were doing their best, but the writing was predictable – literally. I could say some of the characters’ lines before they did.

It's a problem that often plagues rom coms, but we wanted something light and frothy and fun before bed, and so we kept watching. Soon, however, we were complaining. “Wow. I didn’t see that coming!” “Why’s he doing that? It doesn’t make any sense.” “Is she even likable? I don’t think she’s likable.” On and on. Watching and complaining and watching and complaining. If a story’s struggling, it’s only going to get worse at the end, and this one’s conclusion was a trainwreck of forced motivations and unsatisfying resolutions. As the credits rolled, we all but yelled at the TV about how unnatural it all was, and how were we expected to care about what happened, and how we didn’t believe they loved each other.

The network we were watching would sometimes run the same movie back-to-back. The end credits finished, and then the opening credits started. Such was the case this evening. It wasn’t yet late enough for bed, and we were done complaining – for the moment – and as the establishing shot of NY panned down to street level, we looked at each other and said, “Want to watch from the beginning?” We shrugged and settled in.

And that’s when The Trouble started.

We smelled it first. That odd, specific, darkly-tangy electrical smoke scent. Then we saw the grey whisps beginning to rise from the back of the TV. Finally, eerily, the image on the screen actually started to melt away, going from moving color to blackness, while the smoke in our living room grew darker and darker. I leapt from the couch and unplugged the set. The fire within subsided, but our TV was dead.

I looked at my wife. Maybe it was just too old, maybe it was just its time, and maybe we were glad to finally get a new little flat screen. Or maybe we’d killed it. My mind, after all, looks like that TV sometimes, smoking and stinking and melting while I complain and complain and just keep watching.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com